Human Error
by redtaxi
Summary: Sherlock Holmes has a conversation with Molly Hooper, with lasting effects. A 'sour' gift for Varjaks, as part of Broomy's ficathon 2014.


A 'sour' gift for Varjaks. Happy Valentine's Day!

* * *

The open window gave way to a strong gust of wind, as the breeze swirled around, causing disturbance to the settled inside of the flat.

But the Detective stormed in without complaint, oblivious to the flying papers around him as he held the room in cold appraisal.

He hummed impatiently, under his breath as he sifted through the junk on the floor, the littered boxes near the sofa, in his mad search for something lost.

"John."

With no answer to his call, Sherlock toppled a cardboard box in frustraton, its contents duly spilling over, adding to his displeasure.

"JOHN!"

"Under the table, Sherlock. Just where you left it."

Sherlock snapped his head to the source of the voice, to his leather chair where she lounged, feet resting underneath her in a crossed pose.

The traitor heart tightened at the sight of her but Sherlock forged through, bending down to retrieve the item, a black silk tie from underneath the coffee table.

"You're still here then." He remarked apathetically as he looped the tie around his neck.

But out of the corner of his eye, he waited. His impatience growing as Molly kept her silence, choosing instead to release her hair from its braid, spooling it over her shoulders.

A phantom scent of shampoo wafted over him as he took a sharp breath, the flare of his nostrils did only expose him further.

"Are you really going to wear the black one? The blue suits you better."

He blinks before replying unthinkingly, "John prefers it."

"Oh!" A playful smile peaks upon her lips. "Well then, black it is."

Sherlock clears his throat, taking careful steps around the woman, sitting in front of him. "You shouldn't be here."'

"I don't remember you asking me to leave. Say, does Mrs. Hudson know you leave your £300 silk ties lying on the floor? She almost had my head, the other day I happened to stain my blouse."

He answers warily, confusion muddles his thoughts as to why this would be her choice of subject, "She's aware of my habits, yes."

"You've always been her favourite, I suppose."

Sherlock unbuttons his suit as he takes the chair opposite to her. "Much to your delight."

His sarcastic retort earns him a laugh; though short lived, the sudden familiarity of it forces his eyes to blink repeatedly, as if to regain the focus of wanning eyesight.

On closer examination, he finds her to be alarming. The lines of her face, the colour of hair remain just as vibrant as the sunlight that covers her.

She must have seen it in his face (she always sees him) because Molly budges up in her chair, making an open gesture to him with outstretched arms.

The swiftness to his feet is almost embarrassing, but his zeal bears no witnesses as Sherlock strides towards Molly, squeezing uneasily into the chair alongside her.

Though their position was never sustainable, Molly doesn't move away but instead, settles onto his lap with a happy sigh.

Her hands are quick to delve into his hair, while his own are limited to two fingers, resting against her neck, the carotid artery sends a steady beat to his touch.

Molly returns to her gossip, "She nagged and nagged for days. Even after I washed it out. It was only brown sauce-"

"I can't go." He interrupts. The hand in his hair grips the strands a little tighter.

"Why not? I went to yours."

He almost scoffs in offence, "Hardly a fair comparison."

"Yes but we're hardly in fair circumstances, are we?" She murmurs into his ear, the sensation of breath and warmth, all at once, to his skin has a chilling effect upon his senses.

"What would you have me do?" He snaps cruelly, but Molly doesn't take the bait, the joking smile back in play.

"Well-you could at least enjoy the free wine for me."

Affronted by her cander, Sherlock jerks away, through the proximity of their position cannot afford him the distance he so wishes (as if he could wish it earnestly.)

So, this is to be his punishment. To hear her speak carelessly, her humour only serves to twist at the ache in his stomach.

He could think passingly of Mycroft's advice, the grave truth his brother did spare him that sentiment is weakness and to become 'involved' is to fall victim to the crux of human error.

How foolish of him to believe that this time, it would work in his favour.

So lost in his thoughts, Sherlock just catches her lips curl silently over his name before she falls upon him without warning, her forehead rests sweetly against his.

"You should kiss Mrs. Hudson. You should hold Mary, hug John-make sure Greg gets a cabbie at the end." She whispers.

"And then?" He breathes over her.

"Then you come home." Molly removes herself from his lap, he feels the absence for only a moment before she's tugging at his arms, pulling him up into a stand with her.

"Check your emails." Sherlock watches her fiddle with his tie, himself stunned into silence. Indifference is not one of her traits but as Molly finishes the knot, she looks up with a smile that is all hers. "Take a case."

"Already have." He doesn't mean to blurt out, but his old gusto returns just as the innards of his next case fall off his tongue. "Man in Sussex claims to the Swindon College murderer, despite his birth date being off by fifteen years."

Molly murmurs with genuine interest as Sherlock takes the distraction to reclaim his coat from its post by the door.

He has already threaded his coat over his shoulders, the blue scarf left twisted in his hands when he looks over to the chair again.

"Will you- be here still?"

It is a loving smile with which she echoes her words of before.

"I don't remember you asking me to leave."

With that, Sherlock nods slowly as the facade of the sitting room disappears. The transition from his mind palace to reality is never untroubled.

"John." He calls out, once more.

* * *

Later that evening, in a room of yellow and blue, she sits again in his leather armchair.

He entertains her with stories of the funeral; the fraudulent funeral director who attempted to pick pocket the grieving Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock's outing of him and his outlandish staff. And of course, the wine. The terrible, passé wine.

Her laugh was so loud, Sherlock briefly pondered whether it truly did ring in his ears. And whether her kiss would feel just as real.


End file.
